The Solar War (The Long Winter Book 2)

by A. G. Riddle

  “Sir,” the soldier behind me calls out.

  I turn to find a private in battle armor and full winter attire staring at me, his breath coming out of white puffs of steam.

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but we’ve been ordered to begin transporting the sleeves.”

  “Carry on,” I mumble as I leave the room. I look back, wishing I had more time.

  Time.

  That is the currency we’ve spent, the capital we’ve invested in our survival. It has been deployed. Now we are out of time—and we’ll soon see the return on that investment. The answer is binary. If we’ve invested our time wisely, we win. We live. If not, we perish.

  I alone made the decisions that will determine that outcome. There wasn’t time to spend discussing it. I’ve heard the expression it’s lonely at the top, but I never understood it until now. At this moment, I feel utterly alone. The solitude is like a void around me, sucking at my sanity.

  I wish Emma were here with me. But I’m going into the line of fire. For that reason, I’m glad she’s not.

  I stop at the flat with Grigory’s bomb, nodding to the two soldiers flanking the door before entering.

  Grigory sits cross-legged on the floor, staring at the behemoth.

  “You sure it will work?”

  “It will work,” he mutters, not making eye contact.

  We can’t exactly test it, so Grigory’s word will have to do.

  If that bomb doesn’t go off, our chances of survival drop to zero.

  In the command post, I study the video feeds, sensing that I’m watching the calm before the storm, a long silence before a battle. The hours ahead will determine the course of human history.

  At this point, the only people not in stasis are the scientists and soldiers, as well as a few of the civilians like Alex, Abby, Madison, and David. We’ve closed off even more of the habitats, leaving the entire warehouse in freezing conditions except for the command post, situation room, infirmary, and armory. Even the heat in those areas is a far cry from comfort.

  The printers took more power than we anticipated to churn out the parts we needed. The drones require most of the power that’s left and everything the solar panels will capture today. Adding to our problems is the fact that the sun grows dimmer each time it rises. We’re a few months ahead of Arthur’s deadline for the entire world to go completely dark, but it’s clear to me that the planet is now nearly uninhabitable. He probably lied about how much time we had. I bet he assumed if we thought we had more time, we’d work slower. If we had, we’d be facing extinction right now. But we pushed as hard as we could, and that’s the only reason we’re ready to leave.

  A skeleton crew of soldiers is posted at the outer entrances to the plant and warehouse. The rest of our troops are bedding down. For the next ten hours, our men and women in uniform will be sleeping. They’ll need their rest for what comes tonight.

  If Chandler does have another mole like Danforth or Caffee embedded here in Camp Nine, that person will surely alert him. We’re at our most vulnerable today. Even if we were ready for it—if all of our troops were awake and battle-ready—we probably won’t have much chance of repelling a direct attack. If our enemy attacks today, we will have no chance.

  That thought haunts me as I slip into the sleeping bag next to Fowler, still dressed in my thick winter attire.

  If Chandler attacks today—and wins—what would he do with our families in the stasis sleeves? Strand them here on Earth? The planet will be an ice ball soon. It’s a death sentence.

  I close my eyes, but I can’t stop my mind from running. I can’t push away the fear that I’ve missed something. If I have, I’ve doomed us.

  I drift, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, resting, but still conscious.

  Finally, I rise and check the time.

  Two hours to go.

  I exit and march through the halls and climb the rickety staircase to the roof of the warehouse. A dozen soldiers are here, organizing Harry and Min’s mishmash of fake bombs. Harry’s here too, staring at the setting sun on the white horizon.

  “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks me.

  I shake my head.

  “Me either.”

  “When will you land the drones?” I ask him.

  “Fifteen minutes before. I figured any sooner and it would alert them.”

  “Good luck.”

  “You too.”

  As I turn away, he calls to me. “Thank you, James.”

  I turn, seeing his somber smile. Neither one of us says goodbye, but that’s what we both think this might be. I hold my hand out and shake and then pull my closest colleague into a hug. Harry is perhaps my best friend, though Grigory somehow comes to mind as well.

  I wander the warehouse corridors after that, finally making my way to the flat where Arthur and I did our work.

  The hole in the ground reminds me of the shaft he drilled down to the Citadel—and for good reason. We used the same boring drone.

  Soldiers flow in and out of the room, carrying stasis sleeves in and lowering them down to the soldiers waiting in the hole.

  That was the first piece of the puzzle that came to me: Arthur’s boring drone. It worked flawlessly at the Citadel and when it drilled the acceleration ring at the launch site.

  If I’m right, it’s the key to our salvation tonight.

  Though I probably don’t need to, I take a stimulant tablet. My adrenaline is already pumping. The tablet barely adds to it.

  I stand in the command post, Earls and Brightwell beside me, watching the video feed from the roof as the drones fly to their docking stations and clamp down, rapidly recharging their fuel cells. A platoon of soldiers rushes to them and attaches the boxes to their undersides. If they were real bombs, there’s no way the drones could lift off. But our enemy can’t take that chance.

  “Corporal,” Brightwell calls out, “have platoon leaders proceed to location omega where they will receive further instructions.”

  The NCO confirms the order and begins barking orders to the technicians who speak into their headsets.

  For the past few days, similar orders have been issued constantly, directing all platoons to nondescript locations such as sigma, alpha, beta, and theta. This will seem like just more chatter to anyone listening on the outside.

  Location omega is the flat where we drilled the exit tunnel. Until today, only Brightwell, Arthur, and I knew where it was. We told the platoon moving the stasis sleeves a few hours ago. Ten minutes ago, we sent runners to the other platoon leaders with a note disclosing the location. If Chandler’s forces find the flat, we’re in trouble.

  Our troops are in motion now, flowing toward the breach. There’s no turning back.

  This is happening.

  My heart pounds in my chest, the cold aching in my lungs, as if my nerves may strangle me where I stand.

  An image flashes into my mind—of the two guards lying dead in the launch control station. My breath catches. Why am I thinking about that now? It has nothing to do with this. Or does it? The dead soldiers are a mystery I never solved, an event I never factored into this. Two more images assault me: of Arthur standing in his cell smiling at me and of Chandler sneering, saying, It’s begun, James. My revenge.

  Why am I thinking about this now? What does it mean? Is my subconscious telling me the guards have something to do with this? Did Arthur kill them? Or Chandler? Or are they working together?

  Could it be neither? Could this just be my nerves grasping at any loose ends?

  Earls sees the pained expression on my face. “Sir?” he whispers.

  I shake my head. “It’s nothing.”

  On the main screen, the video feed of the enemy camps is unchanged, like a surveillance clip on repeat.

  “Bring up video feeds for Alpha Company, Charlie Platoon,” Brightwell says.

  Live video from soldiers standing in the flat with the tunnel appears. Soldiers stand around the massive hole. Bits of chewed-up concrete, dust, and dirt lie ar
ound the rim. The grid’s technology allowed us to pulverize the dirt and rock from the excavation. It was fine enough to leave down in the tunnel, along the sides. It’s a good thing; we couldn’t have possibly hauled that much material out.

  A rope hangs from the ceiling down into the tunnel, waiting for the soldiers to rappel down.

  On another screen, the video feed from the roof shows Harry giving a thumbs up.

  Brightwell focuses on me.

  I try to make my voice calm. I only partially succeed. “Proceed, Colonel.”

  She nods to two privates, who take off from the room at a jog. One is bound for the roof; the other soon appears in the tunnel room.

  The private hands a folded piece of paper to the commanding officer of Alpha Company’s Charlie Platoon. The woman scans it, pockets the page, and grabs the rope and rappels down. Her troops follow without a word. An endless flow of soldiers follows behind. Except for the contingent here in the command post and the skeleton crews at the exterior entrances, every soldier we have is rushing into the tunnel.

  The video feed shows Charlie Platoon jogging through the circular shaft. Their helmet lights carve into the blackness like miners rushing to a strike. Not far from the hole, the tunnel splits in three ways. Two of those three passages lead to dead ends, which are booby-trapped. Roughly fifty feet before the booby-trapped tunnels end, the drone bored long pits. We’ve placed spikes at the bottom and covered the pits with habitat parts coated in dirt. The cover will only collapse when enough troops—and weight—are standing on it.

  At the termination of those dead ends, we placed car speakers that are broadcasting the voices of troops shouting orders. It’s a lure. One that I hope will make our enemies charge forward to their deaths. It’s a bit Indiana Jones, but it might work. If the enemy troops get into the tunnel, we’ll need all the help we can get.

  It’s a strange thing for me, devising ways to kill. I spent my life trying to eliminate death for my fellow humans. Now I’m killing soldiers who have the misfortune of being against me. Most are simply following orders. They don’t know me. Don’t know my family. But this is the nature of war. You fight to survive.

  Charlie Platoon’s commanding officer is good. She jogs through the forking tunnel without stopping to review the map. This is more than a tunnel. It’s a maze. There are eight forks in the tunnel, each with three choices. At each fork, two of the passages lead to the pits. Hopefully those booby traps will take care of any enemy troops who survive the warehouse and pursue us into the tunnel. At each fork, only one choice doesn’t lead to a dead end.

  I have devised a mnemonic for myself and for those without a map: CABA BABA. I’ve assigned letters to the forks in the tunnel: left to right, A, B, and C.

  Off the main tunnel, near the end, there’s a cavern that holds the stasis sleeves, stacked in neat rows. Every civilian from Camp Nine is there.

  There’s a small detachment of troops guarding the cavern with the civilians, just in case our enemy makes it that far. I also assigned Alex, Abby, David, and Madison to that location. They’ll provide first aid and support if there’s fighting in the tunnel. I hope it won’t come to that.

  Our plan has two weaknesses. Both are fatal. The first will be exposed right now: if we can’t get the enemy to attack the warehouse, we’re finished. Our tunnel isn’t finished yet, but within a few minutes the drone will reactivate and finish the boring. It will break ground just beyond the enemy’s western camp. If the enemy doesn’t attack the warehouse—if they are still in their camp, we’ll have to fight them out in that snowfield. We’re badly outnumbered, and we’ll lose. The next few moments will determine if that’s the case.

  The Charlie Platoon commander’s headlamp rakes over the massive boring drone ahead. She throws a hand up at a right angle, palm forward, fingers together, as she slows her pace. Her light pans to the left, illuminating a figure standing next to a large machine. Suddenly, she comes to a dead stop and unslings her rifle from her shoulder, pointing at the figure.

  Arthur breaks into a smile.

  The troops behind the commander crash into her like train cars piling up. Still holding her rifle at the ready, the Charlie Platoon commander digs the map out of her shirt pocket and glances down at it, confirming her orders. Below the branching diagram lies a single line of text: Do not shoot the person at the end. He will lead you forward.

  She nods to Arthur, and he draws a small tablet from his pocket and taps twice. The massive tunneling machine rushes forward, climbing the wall as it grinds into the earth. Now comes the tricky part.

  The machine can tunnel straight up thanks to its horizontal stabilizers. However, our troops can’t ascend straight up. As such, the boring drone will make a diagonal ascent out.

  Our plan hinges on us completing the tunnel’s exit without the enemy realizing it. We can’t afford to lose the element of surprise. If the ground were bare, they would see the boring machine the moment it breaches the surface. Luckily, the snow above the ground freezes just after nightfall. It will hide our exit.

  Masking the sound of the drone is a far larger challenge. This snow-covered expanse is deadly quiet at night. But I have a plan for that too.

  The tunneling machine grinds forward. The shaft fills with dust, the troops coughing and throwing their arms over their mouths and noses as they follow behind.

  These next minutes are the most crucial. If I’ve timed it wrong, our entire plan falls apart.

  On the video feed of the roof, the other private Brightwell dispatched from the command post emerges from the stair shed. He signals to Harry, who quickly taps at his tablet, hands shaking from the cold or his nervousness or both. He and Min watch as the four drones lift off into the night, the blackness seeming to swallow them. Our enemy will spot the drones taking off, focus their night vision cameras on them and realize the payload they’re carrying.

  On the other screen, the tunneling machine surges forward, grinding the Tunisian sandstone into dust and rubble, the soldiers following behind.

  I watch the feeds of the enemy camps, waiting, hoping…

  Suddenly, the four enemy camps come to life. They have finally seen the images on their surveillance cameras. They’ve reached the conclusion I hoped they would: that the drones are carrying bombs meant for them. They think that this is our end game, our plan to destroy their camp and vehicles. If that truly were the case, they’d have two options—retreat or attack. Retreat would lead away from us, back towards the minefields. They’d spread out on foot and in the vehicles to present more targets—far more than the bombs could neutralize. However, there would still be enough bombs to destroy a large portion of their vehicles. That would leave over half of their troops with no way home. They’d be stranded here, in the cold. In that scenario, they’d have to attack soon or lose half their forces. I’m betting they chose to attack.

  I exhale heavily when the video feed confirms that my gambit has worked. Troops in winter gear pour out of the domed tents. Vehicles on tracks surge forward, soldiers massed behind them, gathering what look like flat white shields and attaching them to the vehicles. The wide barrier makes the trucks look like giant snow plows. The shields are likely layers of habitat parts glued together, thick enough to stop our bullets.

  The trucks lead the way, the lighter vehicles behind them. The four convoys close in on all sides. The mass of troops that were camped near the manufacturing plant splits in two as they rush forward. The divided forces cut wide arcs around the plant to join the forces closing in on the warehouse. Our enemy is assuming the plant is well guarded. The warehouse is larger and harder to defend. They plan to take it first, get hostages, then take down the plant. A solid battle plan. One I was counting on.

  “Wait for them to close,” Brightwell says evenly, watching the screen.

  The tunneling machine coughs and gyrates as it inches forward.

  “Enemy line is at one hundred fifty meters, ma’am,” a tech calls.

  “Hold,” Brigh
twell says.

  The tunneling machine bites into the earth, our troops following.

  “One hundred meters out, ma’am!”

  “Fire!” Brightwell commands.

  The bright lines of tracer rounds lance into the darkness, ricocheting off the enemy vehicles, tearing into the makeshift defenses. Some troops fall, but most charge on.

  The video feed from the Charlie Platoon commander still shows the drone tunneling upward. If it doesn’t break the surface soon, we’re sunk.

  “Enemy line is fifty meters out, ma’am!”

  “Fire and fall back,” Brightwell says, eyes fixed on the screen. She turns to me. “Time to go, sir.”

  I don’t move. I need to see the tunneling machine break the surface.

  If Chandler has a mole in Camp Nine, he’ll probably know about the tunnel. He’ll have left a sizable portion of troops in the western camp. If he knows our plan, they’ll attack the minute that drone reaches the surface. They only need to destroy the drone and close the tunnel. We’d be trapped. They could simply seal the other end of the tunnel, and we’d be finished. No loss of life to them.

  I need to know that we have a way out—that we have a chance.

  I feel strong fingers clamp around my upper arm, a vise tightening.

  “Sir,” Brightwell growls.

  I stare at the screen a long moment. I won’t get the certainty I need before I leave. This is going to be a leap of faith.

  “Okay, Colonel.”

  “Corporal,” she shouts. “Light it up.”

  In the distance, I hear the sound of thunder crashing in waves, vibrating the walls and echoing through the warehouse. On the video feed, the land mines explode in geysers of snow and sand and rock.

  Troops following behind the enemy vehicles look back… but thankfully, they don’t stop. They’re assuming the land mines are a diversion to draw their attention from attacking us. They soon turn their focus back to the warehouse, ignoring the blasts behind them.

  That’s good. The sound of the land mines will easily cloak the grind of the boring machine piercing the surface.